Dixter drew a deep breath, raised his hand in a mollifying gesture. "I . . . I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't mean to bark at you. My guess is we're dealing with some type of newfangled probe. Start there. Oh, and bring in a parapsychologist."

The captain raised her eyebrows. "Parapsychologist, sir?"

"Yes." Dixter smiled. "Parapsychologist. A person who studies the supernatural."

"I know what one is, sir," said the officer stiffly.

"Then no doubt you'll be able to find me one, Captain."

"Very good, sir," said the officer, mystified.

Dixter left the commroom and bumped into Bennett, who had been hovering near the door.

"Are you feeling quite well, my lord?"

"Not particularly," Dixter growled. He sat down at this desk, began rummaging around among the papers.

"The antacid tablets are in the top drawer to the right, my lord."

Dixter grunted, found the tablets, ate two, munched on them disconsolately. "Get hold of Tusk."

"I beg your pardon. Who, my lord?"

Relaxing, the pain in his stomach subsiding momentarily, Dixter managed a grin. "You know who, Bennett. Don't give me that look. I'm not planning to run off and start the old mercenary trade again. Not that I don't think of it sometimes," he added wistfully.

Bennett sniffed. His regulation mustache quivered in disapproval.

Dixter shook his head, shook off memories. "I need Tusk to do a job for me, that's all."

Bennett appeared resigned. "Do you have any idea where Mendaharin Tusca can be located, my lord?"

"Last I heard from him, he was living on Vangelis, running a shuttle service with that blowhard . . . what was his name . . . Link."

"Vangelis, my lord." Bennett lifted an eyebrow. "Odd, that you happened to be discussing that very planet in rather nostalgic terms this morning, isn't it, my lord?"

"Just get hold of Tusk."

"Very good, my lord. And you will remember to change your jacket, won't you, my lord?"

Dixter glowered. Bennett left, stiff-backed, expressing silent disapproval. The Lord of the Admiralty remained seated at his desk, not changing his jacket, risking his aide's ire. The insides of Dixter's mouth were chalky with the taste of antacid. He picked up a cup of cold coffee, swished the liquid around, swallowed it. Too bad he couldn't coat the inside of his head with soothing relief.

Bennett was back. "Sorry, my lord, but phone service to the residence of Mendaharin Tusca has been disconnected."

"Tell the phone company this is the Lord of the Admiralty calling extremely urgent, and that they jolly well better connect it back up again," Dixter snapped.

"I informed them of that, my lord. They said that the service was disconnected for nonpayment of a considerable sum owed to them. The equipment was repossessed, removed from the premises."

Dixter grimaced. The antacid was apparently under counterattack from the cold coffee and, by all indications, was fighting a losing battle. "Try XJ, then."

"My lord?"

"XJ-27. Tusk's shipboard computer. Find the call number under Interplanetary Vehicle licensing and registration. Tusk's a legit businessman now. He'd have to be licensed."

Having known Tusk nearly as long as he'd known the general, Bennett appeared to have his doubts, but he left on his assignment. Dixter wasn't feeling any too confident himself. He was already starting to contemplate, with a certain amount of enjoyment (if he didn't count the space travel, which he detested), flying to Vangelis to talk to Tusk in person, when Bennett returned.

"I managed to reach the computer, my lord. Tusca is not available at the moment. It appears that he is ... um ... babysitting. The computer promised to have him contact you when he puts in an appearance. I gather he is expected at any moment, my lord."

"Good. Thank you, Bennett. Let me know when that call comes through."

"Yes, my lord. Is there anything else, my lord?"

Dixter sighed. There was something else, but he didn't know whether to do it now or wait until he had more information. He decided he'd better do it now.

"Set up an appointment for me with His Majesty."

"Very good, my lord. Knowing His Majesty's busy schedule, I probably cannot arrange a meeting sooner than tomorrow. Will that be suitable, or should I say it is an emergency?"

"No, that'll be suitable." Dixter was relieved.

It wasn't an emergency, not really. Some sort of weird probe had penetrated their security, had walked off with the space-rotation bomb hidden in the late Snaga Ohme's vault, and by now probably knew that the bomb they had stolen was nothing more than an interesting paperweight. His elaborate entrapment scheme had partly failed, partly succeeded. He knew now, for certain, that someone was after the bomb. He also knew that there was a breach in the navy's own security.

Keeping the operation under as much secrecy as it would have been for real, he'd used Xris's commandos to transport a fake space-rotation bomb to a new, supposedly more secure location. As he'd figured, the information that the bomb had been moved had been leaked. Someone had known where it was and how to go after it. But his plans for catching the informant and his or her cohorts had failed.

Or had it?

"Ghost Legion," he muttered.

Bennett had returned and was hovering again. "The meeting with His Majesty is scheduled for tomorrow, 0800. And now, my lord, about that jacket-"

"Screw the damn jacket!" snarled Dixter. He reached for the printouts, knocked over the coffee cup, spilled coffee on his pants.

Chapter Four.

What beckoning ghost .. . invites my step ...

Alexander Pope, Elegy to an Unfortunate Lady Tusk climbed, hand over hand, up the ladder that led to the Scimitar's hatch. He stopped once about halfway up to adjust the child carrier he wore strapped to his back and to admonish the small child inside.

"Remember, be quiet and don't touch anything. Grandpa XJ doesn't like it."

The child nodded solemnly, wide-eyed at the prospect of treading on sacred and forbidden ground. It was not often he was allowed inside the Scimitar. The bright lights and myriad buttons and dials-some of them actually on his level-were too great a temptation for two and a half. Then there was the disembodied voice, the awful and mysterious Grandpa XJ, who was the god of the Scimitar, who had power over light and air and a certain sealed compartment beneath the plastileather sofa.

Tusk reached the hatch located on the top of the spaceplane, and pounded on it. "Open up, XJ. It's me."

The hatch whirred open with a suddenness that surprised Tusk, who had been expecting an argument or at least a barrage of sarcastic remarks from the computer. Flashing one last warning glance at the toddler, Tusk crawled through the hatch and descended into the spaceplane.

Those who had flown in this plane three years earlier-His Majesty among them, as proclaimed by an engraved plaque bolted to the bulkheads (Link's idea)-would not have recognized it now. Once a fighting warbird, the Scimitar had undergone a remarkable and expensive transformation, was now (as Nola put it) a cockatoo.

The bubble on top, which had once been the gun turret was the "observation dome." Only one passenger could sit up there and "observe" at a time, and that was a rather tight fit due to the fact that the gun was still in place, though Tusk had built a cabinet around it and it now masqueraded as a drink holder. But the observation dome was popular with travelers and was one of the spaceplane's selling points.

The sleeping area-once a repository for tools and mags and vids, coils of wire, empty bottles of jump-juice, and a couple of hammocks suspended from the overhead-was now "homey and inviting" as Link termed it, though Tusk thought privately it looked like the waiting room in a dentist's office.

The weapons storage compartments were plastileather settees. The deck had been carpeted (used). A large-screen vid provided entertainment for the space-weary traveler. Link would have added an artificial fireplace, for "ambiance," but Tusk had threatened to throw him out the airlock if he did. The only improvement of which Tusk thoroughly approved was the new wet bar. He took care to keep it well stocked, much to XJ's ire. The computer ceased to grumble, however, after discovering how much profit they made off liquor sales.

Unfortunately, that was the only area in which they were showing a profit. Business was good. The swift-flying shuttle was popular with those who either needed to be somewhere in a hurry or wanted to get there without customs and immigration taking notice of them on arrival. Such people were willing to spend extra to obtain one or the other convenience, or both. With careful money management and sound investments, "Tusk's Link to the Stars" (as Nola had cleverly dubbed it) could have made its two owner-operators comfortable, if not wealthy.

But Link's idea of a sound investment was a hot tip on a horse in the seventh. Tusk's notion of money management was to spend what he had when he had it and to save it when he didn't. Nola could have handled the accounting, but she was working full time, trying to raise a toddler, and pregnant again. XJ-27 yammered and raved and ranted about their bleak financial state, but unless the customer paid with credit, the computer could rarely get its microchips on the money. And most of their customers paid in cash, to leave no record of the transaction.

Some children are frightened by the bogeyman or ghosts or the monster that lives in the closet. Young John was terrified of the dark and ghoulish nemesis known in the Tusca household as the Collection Agent.

Reaching the dentist-office level of the Scimitar, Tusk slid his arms out of the straps of the backpack child carrier lowered his son silently and stealthily to the deck, and put his finger to his lips.

"XJ," called Tusk, trying to sound nonchalant. "There been any calls for me?"

"One. It was- What's that?"

"What's what?" Tusk asked innocently. Winking at his son, the pilot walked over to the bar, began to clang bottles together loudly. "We're low on scotch.. .."

"Someone else is breathing," stated XJ irascibly. "And I detect the distinct smell of wet diaper. You've brought that brat of yours in here!"

Young John sat on the deck, thumb in his mouth, waiting patiently to make his move. The son of a starpilot and a former TRUC driver turned guerrilla fighter, John Tusca knew the value of a diversion and was waiting until the shooting started.

Tusk was about to deny the charge, then changed his mind. "It's only for an hour or so. Nola's got a doctor's appointment and we couldn't get a sitter. And he's not wet. He's potty trained now. At least most of the time. Who called?"

"I'm not saying," the computer snapped. "This is not Ding-dong School. Remove the little twerp and we'll discuss business."

"Damn it, XJ! My kid's not a 'twerp' or a 'brat.' He's my son-a person, just like me-"

"Now there's a recommendation!" XJ gave a mechanical snort.

"-and he needs to be treated with respect!" Tusk finished loudly. "You're gonna give him an inferiority complex or something, talking about him like that. Babies can understand a lot more than we think they can. Now, who the devil called? Was it important?"

"Extremely. Urgent, in fact. And I admit the brat makes more sense than you do, most of the time, but he doesn't belong on my plane. He touches my buttons," XJ complained peevishly.

"I'll touch your buttons!" Tusk stalked over to the railing that separated the bridge from the plastileather-and-used-carpet lounge area and peered down into the cockpit. "What do you mean, your plane? We're partners-you and me and Link And damn it, XJ, if a client called and we miss a run because you're-"

"A run?" XJ sputtered. "How're you going to make a run with junior there? 'Sorry, folks, we can't make the jump to lightspeed. It gives the baby hiccups. I was never so humiliated! It's a wonder I didn't short out."

"Would you forget that? He was real little then. Nola'll be back any minute. Now, who called? Was it Lovason? He said he might have an important drop to make later on in the week-" "No, it was not Lovason. And why'd you have to go and get pregnant again anyway? Jeez, don't you two ever do anything except-"

This diversion was better than expected. Young John made his move. Keeping low, so as not to draw fire, crawling on belly, elbows, and knees, he made it all the way across the deck to one of the settees. Then there came a lull in the firing. John pulled himself upright, sat with his back against the settee, had his thumb in his mouth by the time his father glanced around. "John, where- Oh, there you are. Don't mess with that." John regarded his father with the expression of blank and baffled innocence that is a small child's first line of defense.

"Okay, there's a good boy. He's not bothering anything, XJ, so don't get your circuits in a knot. As for why we got pregnant again, if it's any of your goddam business, which it isn't, Nola's not getting any younger, and the doctor said if we wanted-" A panel in the bottom of the settee slid open. Young John reached in his hand. His pudgy fingers found the cookie, wrapped around it, conveyed it to his mouth. He munched on it silently, under the cover of friendly fire.

"Don't give me that," XJ was saying. "I think you two just screwed up, no pun intended. And how you expect to feed another mouth, when you've got creditors lined up from here to Hell's Outpost, not to mention the fact that they've canceled your medical insurance-"

"Canceled the insurance?" Tusk gaped. "When? How?" "Stop jabbering. The insurance company likes to be paid. They're funny that way."

Tusk groaned. "Was that due this month? I thought-" "No, you didn't That's your problem. Besides, it was due two months ago. And if you think I'm-" XJ stopped in mid-sentence. The computer's tone altered. "Yes, my lord. Yes, good talking to you again, my lord. He's here now, my lord. Just this moment stepped in. Please hold for a second, my lord, and I'll put him right on."

"Who is it?" Tusk asked, sliding down the ladder into the cockpit. "My lord who?"

He cast one worried glance over his shoulder at the baby, but young John was leaning with his back against a settee, staring at nothing with the grave intensity of two years. His mother would have noticed that he was far too quiet and well-behaved to be up to anything good. His father congratulated himself on how adept he was at child-rearing. He couldn't understand why Nola always complained about John getting into things he wasn't supposed to. Tusk never had that problem.

He sat down in the pilot's seat to take the incoming call.

Young John reached back into the secret compartment, took two cookies.

"General Dixter," said XJ, sounding subdued. "Pardon me, Sir John Dixter. On the viewscreen."

"General Dix-" Tusk made a strangled sound. "Was he the one-? You didn't tell-? Sir!"

The Lord of the Admiralty appeared on the screen, gorgeous and almost unrecognizable in white uniform, decorated with stars, rows of gleaming medals, gold braid on the shoulder, all of which made him look imposing, severe, and unfamiliar. This was not the general Tusk had served under during his years as a mercenary, not the man who'd sat in that hot trailer in the middle of the desert, drinking Laskarian brandy and talking about a king's child, born on a night of fire and blood.

"General! Sir!" Tusk jumped to his feet, saluted. He was acutely aware of his own sweat-soaked fatigues.

"He's addressed as 'my lord,' fool!" XJ intoned in a low audio that, nevertheless, carried quite well.

"I-I mean m-my lord," Tusk stammered.

Dixter smiled, the same warm and generous smile Tusk remembered, the smile that always had something a little sad about it. "Belay that, Tusk. We've known each other too long for that."

Now Tusk saw the cheese pastry stain on the Lord of the Admiralty's lapel, the coffee stain on the right elbow. Tusk relaxed, grinned, and sat down.

"Good to see you, sir," he said.

"It's good to see you, Tusk. Damn good." Dixter himself appeared to relax; the brown eyes in their maze of wrinkles warmed. "How's Nola?"

"Fine, sir. She'll be along any minute. You can say hello.

Well, no, you can't. I forgot. She can't squeeze through the hatch. We're . . . er . . . expecting again."

"Are you? Congratulations! And how's my godson?"

"Growing like a weed, sir. I can get him, if you'd like-"

"No, you don't!" snapped XJ. "Don't bring that rug rat down into my cockpit!"

"Oh, stow it!" Tusk started to stand up again, always proud to show off his son.

"Perhaps in a moment," Dixter said, raising his hand. He continued to smile, but the tense expression was back. "I didn't call just to visit, though God knows it's been long enough since we have. Too long. I get busy...."